Monday, May 11, 2009

Yours to Deal With

Clacking sounds similar to onions. Vida Blue in Oakland teapot, relaxing full of tea. Grampus Americans settled for Dick Cheney luncheon meat, vice capital and when we go home. Sentences are Republican, tho not to a fault. We have spheres of TVs sitting near our academy. Listen to Steve Jobs.

Steve Jobs woke to the fame of being perfectly right. It was a sentence without virus, and astonished the voters of saying so.

German war machine includes great video excerpts. American war machine meets Russian war machine, while gypsies in Bulgaria reform the present tense. Hitler was a party gal.

Maoist rubber pants protect, as do Stalinist rubber pants. The baby is well, tho needs a brass bottom. Tenderness of hit man in the season of wet blankets, lilacs remain in the dooryard, province of taste. Klingons fly off handle, leaving handle to itself.

Hitler party girl dolled up like pine. Deciduous references need a day or two. A poem is propped to matter. This is how Dick Cheney got thru school.

Dick Cheney refused to over educate, instead he was pronounced. The Klingons swept thru, only examining a washed ashore grampus. Shore is for old folks, who swim by laying down.

A poem is light like Steve Jobs, filled with ammo, like Dick Cheney, and tells a good registration re Stalin. Fight with farts, expert ticking machine. Your heartbeat is overclocked. Vide Blue must rest for the big game in the past.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

Say Thanks to the Hotwired Super Bunny

Poetry will make it if we stick to exciting prologues redshifted to vented arrangements of tonic chimes, which will include plastic chance and a hard won vocabulary. Your betters, including Galway Kinnell, Amy Clampitt, thrones of professors, and the weird excuse of the greeting card, will posit exact change in your dynamic world. A new world turned frisky, that is, with global positioning setting the word's universal pace in the globally global universe. Think of it, hayseed: we have tears some days, guttural laughs on others, and Garrison Keilor is our tall mood of a friend. Imagine teaching all that to freshmen while stating the case for Whitman's bullshit. Meanwhile, all the Melvins are invited for dinner, you the consequence. That means Poet Laureates are loose, and spreading like Klingons.

Stated Thus, You Pig Farmers

raided Galway Kinnell's home for constancy, Amy Clampitt uncaged with racks of rapture. closets full of tippling pilgrims regard rooming houses filled with raucous hamadryads reading limited time opportunity filled with Ovid's spunk. as such, the vigour of undercoat, the press junket of polygamy, the activated charcoal of regular life.

swift bezels make sassy application to exactly the same frame rate as Steve Jobs with his pants on. you love his Paris Hilton quadruplicating, him and his minions of phlegm portents. rippling pot shots increase Ovid flapjacks, with pants down to here, literally 'here'.

uppermost spoonfed clogged hvac betrayers round third base and head for more. then Amy Clampitt commits kingfisher, Doppler effect of brainchild. no koan restrains the strip mall but the battle axe in moping phase reads Ben & Jerry in a tulipe noire. precede your poem with benevolent autograph, calling all Red Sox fans except Tris Speaker of the KKK. postscript your poem with generous clump, totally nude bison. hello Clump, you are mine, like West Virginia dirt next to a filled up puppet show of Amy Clampitt's upper percentile.

days are sorted by Yogi Bear, westron wind of consequence. such poetry, Steve Jobs, period. that's STEVE JOBS, comma, period, the imagination of a sentence.